Roberts Second Rebellion
by Grunt
Summary: For Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, death was suprisingly painful. And brief. Very very brief. Bloody Seven-in-One.


Even in death, the pain was still there. That horrid feeling of his innards tugging any which way, straining against his hastily patched together stomach. Worst of all, whatever wine he had drunk, whatever herbs or potions they had given him in his final moments, nothing of that blissful relief remained in his body. He hurt as bad as before his final breath, and gods damnit, he had nothing to focus on but the pain because there was NOTHING else.

Only darkness, stretching into all directions, with him in the center, on his back, lying on a ground that wasn't cold, wasn't warm but still not comfortable in any way or shape. Nothing else.

No one else.

"Robert!"

He knew that voice. He knew that voice even though he couldn't even remember it. It had been so long, so incredibly long but still, he KNEW HER VOICE. Gritting his teeth, he strained against the pain and dug his fingers into the not-cold, not-warm darkness that was the ground. He managed to raise his head. He opened his eyes.

"Baratheon!"

Another voice, half-remembered, even older than the first. A man, hard and harsh, but with an occasional warmth that a part of him still treasured, decades after that man had died. His eyes were burning from the strain but finally he could see them in the dark.

Seven. He was on the ground, in front of seven figures.

"Bloody hells!" He felt like throwing up. A spark of anger arose within him. Or maybe that was a piece of his lung tearing itself apart, it was hard to tell. He pushed himself harder, pushed his fat and dead body just a few more centimeters and then he sat in front of the Seven.

"Robert Baratheon, we have come to have words with you!"

Again, the voice of his father, Steffon Baratheon. The Father, he would bet on it.

"Robert Baratheon, did you think we would not hear? We would need know? That you died, cursing our names, our roles, our selves?"

A rasping voice, old as only a crone could be and this time he couldn't stop himself. Definitely anger, then, and not some part of his innards.

"Bloody Hells, YES, I cursed you, on my deathbed. 17 years I kept the peace, your sycophants safe and your priests coffers full. 17 years in this cursed snake pit of a city and you judge me for my dying thoughts!"

"You curse us in ignorance, Robert Baratheon, so many blessings we have given you, but you offer only scorn."

His mother's voice, Cassana Baratheon, coming from the mouth of the Mother herself. It should have given him pause, maybe just a moment to remember her voice, remember her care. The memories failed to rouse themselves. But the anger came, as it always had, as it always did. When everything else refused to serve, Fury came as easy as a wineskin. And far more intoxicating.

"…you bloody bastards dare talk to me about Blessings. You took everything from me. You have given me nothing but SUFFERING!"

The pain had become a secondary concern at best, it was more important to GET UP. His wounds would not stop him, couldn't stop him. From where he sat, he struggled to put himself on his legs, even on his knees, but he could not sit here.

"We have given you guidance… ", again his father's voice, "...and care as only a Father and Mother can!" his mother's voice finished their lie, delivered with perfect timing as if to mock him even more than their words already did.

"YOU TOOK THEM FROM ME YEARS TOO EARLY!"

He spat blood form his mouth and continued to struggle, ever so slowly putting his immense weight on his legs but never letting his eyes wander from the Seven in front of him.

"I gave you strength, I gave you fury!" It was his own voice, clad in the stag-helmet, hammer at his side.

"And no enemy to use it on for 9 bloody years!"

"I gave you a mind of steel, to do what must be done!" Tywin Lannisters voice, accompanied by the sound of iron on iron filled his ears as the Smith spoke.

"You gave me a bloody heart of stone to order the death of a little girl half a world away!"

"I gave you wisdom, as seldom as you used it, it was still yours, freely given!"

"Anything I know, I earned in this damned city, by dodging every bloody viper you gifted wisdom to."

He didn't know how he had done it, but he had managed to rise to his feet once again, running on Fury alone, of that he was sure. Only anger could make him move when he should be dead. This was as far as his Fury could push him, he thought.

Another voice. Anything he had felt before this was nothing. It simply could not compare to the red haze that settled over his thoughts and words. The first voice. It was the trident, all over again. Swords of Steel, Armor of Steel and Armies of Ten-Thousands all to stop his anger and his armies. Lyanna's voice. Everything fell to his Fury and Hammer, those his anger did not kill, his men crushed beneath theirs.

"I gave you…" "One more word and I will kill you."

Silence was his answer as the seventh figure came closer. There was no voice this time. There was no face either, only a skull, grim and dead, staring him into the eyes. Judging him. Finding him wanting.

And then came a sense of dark amusement.

"I DO NOT GIVE. I DO NOT BLESS. I TAKE."

He narrowed his eyes but nothing happened.

"I'm not seeing you take a bloody thing here."

A rasping sounds came forth and it took him a moment to realize that it was chuckling. Dry, bony, laughter.

"I TAKE YOUR SON. WAKE UP ROBERT BARATHEON AND SUFFER!"

He opened his eyes, to a bright morning, soft sheets all around him and the smell of somehow not having puked his guts out after a night of drinking too much made him pause. SUFFER. He could hear the word, still thundering through his head, and he couldn't help but grimace at the memory of Seven Judging Figures. What a dream, he thought. What a stupid, senseless dream. He was not dead. He was not even wounded.

He sat up with an ease he hadn't felt in years, eyes roaming over his room. It didn't look like his room. Too much gold and red and not enough wineskins, goblets and bottles. Then he saw the mirror and within the polished surface he saw his face.

Robert Baratheon screamed, so loud and girly as only Joffrey Baratheon's mouth could.

It was a testament to how early he had woken from his death that no doors were ripped open by his guards. His breath caught in his throat as he realized that any moment now Clegane could come barging in, or even worse, his own wife, Cersei. That thought brought an amusing realization with it, lifting the dark mood that had settled over him.

Robert sat back on his bed, Joffreys bed, and began to chuckle. "As if I'd need another reason not to sleep with my 'loving' wife."

From his position he continued to stare at his mirror-image. He hadn't spent as much time with the boy as he should have, he knew that, yet he would have recognized the child in the mirror in any case. A bitter taste filled his mouth at that thought. His heir was gone, replaced by a fat coward, hiding behind ale and whores. He was a coward, he understood himself well enough to say that much at least. Cersei might have thought him incapable of that line of thinking, but he knew his strengths and weaknesses.

Robert Baratheon had not been a good king. Hadn't been a good father either. Or a good brother. The thought of being a good husband had never even crossed his mind. He was afraid of many things, many people, least of all the people he faced on the battlefield. Those at least he could deal with easily enough. If you fear your enemy, you crush him. He wasn't the Kingslayer or the Red Viper or even the Mountain. He had never played with his enemies. When the hammer came down, they all died. No taunts, no witty remarks. That's how you crush your fears. The ones he hadn't allowed himself to crush, he had drowned. Or at least attempted to. For better or for worse. And when all that didn't help, there had always been a whore or two that appreciated solid coin and experienced hands.

Robert grinned at the memories, his thoughts growing even more melancholic.

"In the arms of whores, I found solace because in the arms of my wife I would have found mostly daggers."

And bloody hells, in addition to all his other faults, now he could put being a sentimental idiot on the very top. He was alive, his son was dead or at least gone and for all that anyone knew, he was Joffrey Baratheon, golden haired, mean-spirited and spoiled rotten by Cersei. At least he had Ned to hold the Realm together until he came of age. Good old Ned was the only one standing between his 'lovely' wife and controlling the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. And suddenly his mind cleared of the malaise that had plagued him since he had awoken. He had to go and do something.

He had to speak with Ned. There was no one else with whom he could speak about this. There was no one else he WANTED to speak with. For all his northern stubbornness and suicidal tendencies when it came to honor, Eddard Stark was the man Robert had chosen as his brother. Renly was a prat, a pretty boy, and the only thing Robert felt uncomfortable calling him was stupid. The Master of Laws was no fool, but he was still an arrogant little prick that never got the beating he so richly deserved every time he opened his mouth. Stannis was, well, any brotherly love between him and Stannis was about as dead as his own father. Long gone, long dead and mostly forgotten. Probably also on the bottom of some ocean.

No, it was Ned, and Ned alone that he wanted to talk to. Jon was dead and thus only Ned remained. The three of them had conquered Seven Kingdoms and ended a dynasty. The two of them would figure out a way to keep the kingdoms together and save a dynasty from going down.

A sudden knocking sound broke his line of thought, earning the servant that peeked in an irritated glare. How long had he sat there, lost in thought, if the servants were already coming for him?

"Your Grace, your presence is sorely missed in the court room, the Queen wishes to speak her farewell to the late King in half an hour."

"Bloody hells, how many crocodile tears can she actually squeeze out of her blackened soul."

"Your grace! The Queen is grieving right now, she can barely stop her tears at the memory of her beloved husband."

Robert deigned the quivering Servant with a contempt-filled snort before turning to his wardrobe. Tears of laugher he wouldn't put past Cersei, though he was sure she would act as demure and grieving as she needed in front of the court, not that anyone that mattered would be fooled.

"What is it with all the gold in his clothes, that is what happens when I leave him to Cersei…" muttering to himself, Robert took off his sleeping clothes before throwing them away. Turning around he saw the still quivering servant.

"WELL, I received your message and I will be there as fast as I can, now GET LOST ALREADY!" Robert bellowed, not even waiting for the Servant to turn tail and run before he turned his attention back to his clothes, the door falling shut behind the fleeing man.

"There has to be something in here that isn't Lannister colors, I refuse to look like Tywins pet mascot."

Rummaging through his drawers and wardrobe finally brought forth a set of clothes he could live with, being mostly black and red. The stag of House Baratheon was shown and no Lannister Gold was visible. The clothes appeared very new but seemed a bit small around his upper body, not enough to be considered ill-fitting though. Now it was time to join the court and listen to a bunch of bold-faced liars tell everyone how much they missed him. Bullshit from one end to the other of course, but such was court life in King's Landing.

It was time to face the music and try not to puke at the stink of it all. And when all lies had been spoken and he could put some healthy distance between himself and Cersei he would speak to Ned.

He made his way through a suspiciously silent keep. He couldn't remember a day in his life when there was a such a distinct lack of…life in this damned place. Always people running this or that way, always someone whispering at some corner. It figured that it would take the death of a king to stop the court for but a single day. Clegane was following behind him, keeping his helmet under this arm. For what reason, Robert could not tell. Who did he expect to be attacked from in this place? Rats and Birds?

He turned another corner and suddenly the silence was broken. He could hear voices from the throne room. Loud voices, the sound of arguments and the sound of shifting weapons. He narrowed his eyes at the idea alone. One bloody night, those idiots wouldn't even let him rest more than one night before doing something monumentally stupid.

"Put on that bloody helmet Clegane and put on your usual face."

If Sandor Clegane was disturbed by his order, he didn't show it. A sardonic smirk could be seen on his face before he put his helmet on, questioning his charge with the usual drawl.

"You're not going to order me to fight a cripple, are you?"

Robert didn't deign to turn his head again, merely looking at the door to the throne room that was coming closer, the guards standing in front of it bearing the red and gold of House Lannister and looking very much confused.

"If the thought of facing the Lord Hand scares you too much Clegane, I will take care of him, you can deal with my…..mother." He nearly stumbled over the word, a bitter taste filling his mouth.

This time the Hound actually came to a momentary stop, a look of pure astonishment on his face, visible even through his helmet. He began to snort before releasing throaty laugher.

"Bloody hells, your Grace, I'll take the cripple, his guards and city watch, but spare me the Queen-Mother."

Robert's laughter was loud and booming, ill-fitting for his now slender frame.

"Smart man, useless but smart. Well, come on Clegane, it is time to stop those fools from killing each other."

Two meters. The guards seemed as befuddled as before, confusion on their faces and Robert felt a spark of anger flare up inside of him. He was the king and yet his own bloody door guard looked confused at why he would be here.

"Open up the bloody door."

One meter. They still didn't move. Refused to move even as he came dangerously close to simply walking into the damn door. He opened his mouth to shout at them again, snarl already forming on his face as a loud voice rang out from the throne room.

"YOUR WORDS CONDEMN YOU LORD STARK. SIR BARRISTAN, ARREST THIS TRAITOR!"

The sound was unmistakable. Steel sliding along leather, hands hefting spears and halberds, shields being gripped too tightly. He remembered these sounds so well, they might as well have been this childrens names. Worse, he knew what they meant, what they said when words failed. They were going to attack Ned. In his throne room. With his guard. With his city-watch. They were going to kill his oldest friend. His only friend. On the words of Cersei fucking Lannister.

Reason left the room.

Spindly arms shot out, hitting upon thick and reinforced wood.

Robert Baratheon entered.

The sound of the door hitting the walls stopped every Stark man in the throne room in his tracks. His furious gaze alone sent the spears of the city-watch down, no longer willing to attack. It was his shout though, the very moment the words of rage left his mouth that even the Kingsguard took a step back.

"STOP THIS INSTANT! HAVE YOU ALL GONE MAD!"

They had all frozen, like rabbits in front of a snake, his words still ringing in their empty heads. Behind him Clegane was chuckling up a storm. Whatever the scarred man thought about the sudden change in his charge, he was rolling with it surprisingly well.

"Joffrey, my son, you are late, we are about to be finished with this traitor to your rule!"

Of course she would gather her wits before anyone else. It was easy enough when there wasn't much to gather in the first place. Robert suppressed the desire to snort loudly.

"I bloody well am late, otherwise this idiocy would never have gotten as far as it did. The first person to raise their weapon, the first person to make any attempt so much at shedding bloody in MY hall, I will throw into the damned harbor myself!"

It was Ned who spoke up, calm, collected, but strained by his wounds and the situation.

"Joffrey Waters, spawned of incest between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, you are no king, and never will you be one. In lieu of any of your siblings being trueborn Baratheons, Stannis of the House of Baratheon, first of his name is the true and rightful king."

The words came like a hammer blow to his stomach, he felt sick and too shocked to argue back

Why.

Why you Ned?

Why now?

Why Stannis of all assholes in the realm?

The spark was there of course, as always. Burning bitterly in his chest. The sickness disappeared with the heat it brought. The shock faded in the face of anger. It brought the old wisdom. The old tricks and strengths. Don't defend, don't block. Feint, Attack, Charge, Destroy.

"That is the dumbest thing I heard all day and I just finished hearing my Hand being called a traitor."

Robert gave a nonchalant wave of his hand to accentuate the stupidity of both statements before glaring at a particular brave or stupid man of the watch who had begun to grip his spear tighter. He knew that look, that mix of fear, greed and aggressiveness.

"You point that bloody spear at anything but the ground and by the time I'm done with you, I promise you nobody in all of the seven kingdoms will doubt my Baratheon blood, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Again, a sea of confused faces nodded dumbly at his fury-laden words and he could barely stop himself from sighing.

"Sir Barristan, do remove everyone from the room. I will speak with my Lord-Regent alone, without any guards."

"Your Grace?"

Robert noted with a devious joy that Cersei looked as if she had bitten into a particularly foul apple as she and everyone else was guided out of the room. He did his best to ignore her screeching, a task aided by his long experience with her. His joy faded as the men around Ned refused to budge, looking like a bunch of stubborn mules.

"Gods damnit, what are you afraid for? I will be alone with the Lord-Regent, what could I even do to him with those childish arms of mine?"

Two dozen pairs of eyes strayed from his face, gazing to his sides. Turning his head, Robert saw the doors he had moved through earlier on.

Shattered wood greeted his sight, even the stone-walls were slightly crumbled where the reinforced wood had hit the walls.

Robert turned back to the many eyes all focused on him before sporting a grin that showed far too much teeth to be considered friendly.

"Nothing to fear as I said."

In the end, it taken far too many pointed glares and reminders of who was the king in this bloody keep to be left alone with Ned.

The Lord-Regent was still perched on his cane, hiding any confusion he might have felt behind his usual look of ice-cold control. A bad sign if he had ever seen one. That was the face Eddard Stark wore when he killed a man, be it on the battlefield or on the execution block. Ned had always been at his most dangerous when he became like this. Cold as Ice and twice as sharp. Bloody Northmen. A bleeding heart when his conscience tugged at him, but death with a great sword when his honor demanded it of him.

"Bloody Hells Ned, I need your help."

He didn't know why the words slipped out as they did, but he couldn't take them back. He needed his friend at his side. If he had no one else in this damn keep, if there was no loyal soul in this entire kingdom but this one man, he would be glad for it.

"I have already offered your mother to leave unmolested with her children, she refused my good will. I will not let a spawn of incest sit on Robert's Throne. That I swear on the gods old and new."

Still cold and distant, he could see no change in his old friend.

"Gods damnit Ned, I don't have the time for this idiocy. Look at me, I am Robert Baratheon. I am not Joffrey, incest or not!"

This time Ned reacted, his features twisting into a pained grimace before once more being schooled into cool indifference. Not completely cool though, Robert could see the anger in his eyes. The way his cheeks kept on twitching. Ned was angry. Incredibly angry.

"Listen to me boy and listen well. I refuse to spill blood in Robert's hall, that is the only reason why I won't strike you right here and now for this insult to his memory. You are not Robert, you are not Baratheon. You are Lannister, twice as much as any Lannister should be, cursed by the gods old and new."

Robert stepped forward, closing the distance between the two, ignoring the cane as his hand came to rest on the collar of Neds tunic.

"Brave and bold words. So brave and bold I clearly remember another idiot spouting similar garbage 27 years ago. You know what that little idiot said back then? Well? Do you remember Eddard Stark?"

Ned was glaring at him, hands still clutching his cane as he tried to ignore the hand on his collar.

"I do not care to reminisce with a child less than half my age over a time he has only ever heard of! Unhand me, Waters, and I give you one less chance to leave King's Landing in peace."

The hand on his collar did not let go and Robert's smile became a tad more cruel.

"Let me refresh your memory then, because 27 years ago, there was a little twerp, let us call him Ned, who for some reason thought he could mouth off to a man of the House of Baratheon. Do you remember Ned, do you remember what that little brat said?"

The memory was indeed there, filled with shame and pride. Shame for one, pride for the other. Ned remembered, oh he definitely remembered it and thankfully, goaded by whatever devil was possessing them both right now, spoke the words from more than 2 decades ago.

"The day a Northman from the house of Stark loses to some stupid Southern Knight who can't even use a sword is the day the Night King raises again!"

"You fought well, Ned, you really did, for a brat. I was bigger, I was stronger and yet you didn't surrender. I broke your fancy sword; I broke your bloody arm. I was screaming like a madman, trying to shatter that damn shield with your dire wolf and what did you do?"

"You tried to shatter it, so I held it away, you tried anyway. I cradled the shield in my arms, you tried anyway. I put myself over the shield, you tried anyway. Broke 2 of my ribs before 3 servants hauled you off me."

"You always were an idiot about honor, you had no reason to protect that damn sigil so hard but you did anyway."

Ned was looking straight into his eyes, looking for something, something that wasn't Joffrey, something that wasn't Lannister. Something that was older than anything Cersei Lannister could have created. And he found it. Eddard Stark smiled, a grim smile, full of pain but victorious. A man on a crutch, standing prouder than any king.

"I told you back then, that there was a Stark in Winterfell and my life was mine to give, for any honor I might find."

"I don't think Jon ever truly forgave you for saying that. He loved you like a son. He didn't want you to die for some fool reason like that."

"I wasn't the one who spent the next 2 months shoveling shit and carrying my equipment. Jon was a father for me, but for you as well. You barely ate anything at all until he looked you into the eyes once again. He asked you to never go wild like that again. To never let anger take you over like that again."

"Not like I can help it. It's who I am, Ned. You can take the fish out of water, you can pluck the bird from the sky…"

"…but you can't stop the fury of a Baratheon. Or so you told me over a thousand times."

They shared a look, guilty and amused, as if the last 25 years had never happened, as if they still were children playing at being men. As if they still had anything to smile about. As if they didn't have a thousand questions that demanded answers.

"How, Robert? How did this happen?"

Robert thought for a moment. Where to begin. Where to end. What to say. There was no reason to hold back after all.

"Bloody Seven."


End file.
